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I’m still technically weaponless, but I can feel the poke of the mail opener in the side pocket of my leggings. It’s better than nothing.
Usually, I use the last two blocks of my run to cool down, but I don’t slow this time. Not even when I get inside my building. Instead, I take the stairs two at a time and keep jogging until I slam my door closed and slide the deadbolt home.
Only then do I collapse back against my door with a thud.
“Fuck me,” I whisper. Now that I’m inside my apartment, I feel stupid for being so scared.
What was Timofey going to do—lurk behind a trash can and snatch me off the sidewalk? He has no way of knowing I even went for a run. Plus, if he was going to ambush me, he would have done it at his house this morning.
I list off my own rationalizations for why my heart rate should slow and I can relax, but I don’t start to breathe normally again until after my shower.
When I get out, I go through the motions of a normal night. I listen to a podcaster I can’t stand recap the latest episode of some reality TV show I don’t even watch while I make myself a batch of taco soup big enough to last the next three nights. Then I curl up on the end of my sofa and eat while the laugh track to a decades-old sitcom plays in the background.
By all appearances, everything is as it should be in the life of Piper Quinn.
But I barely register any of it. My head is lost in some temporal space just behind my consciousness, torn between replaying my attack last night and parsing through every single word Timofey spoke this morning.
Another part of me is still in that alley, a desperate man’s hand wrapped around my throat.
Yetanotherpart is standing in front of Timofey on trembling legs while he recounts every detail of my daily existence.
If you find the facts of your life insulting, that is your problem, not mine.
I look at my desk, which is also my side table since my apartment is too small for both. The medical bill on top of the stack has red ink stamped on the envelope.
FINAL NOTICE.
Timofey is right: that is my problem, not his. And I have no idea how I’m going to fix it.
When Noelle and Ashley call me later, I swipe to dismiss the call and quickly text them my excuse.I slept like crap last night. I’m already on my way to bed. Talk to you tomorrow.
It’s a lie, but the moment I send the message, I realize sleep is a great idea. My eyes burn with exhaustion and sitting here spinning my mental wheels isn’t helping.
The dishes in the sink and the day-old makeup on my face are both a tomorrow problem, I decide as I slip beneath my comforter.
I hear my phone vibrate, but I don’t check it. It’s probably from Noelle or Ashley. Whatever it is, it can wait.
I close my eyes and fall asleep before I can fully grasp my next thought.
9
PIPER
My eyes snap open and it’s like I never slept at all. Between one blink and the next, I’m awake.
With a hand clamped over my mouth.
I claw at the muscled arm attached to the hand even while I’m positive this has to be a nightmare. Then a face leans close to me, and a now-familiar set of icy blue eyes appears like a mirage out of the darkness.
“Hello again, Ms. Quinn.”
That’s when I realize that this is not a nightmare.
This is very, very real.
I inhale to scream, but Timofey’s hand clamps over my lips even tighter.
“Quiet.” The word is surprisingly gentle, given the way he’s holding me. “Screaming won’t do any good. It will only make things harder.”
